It new and old being back on the grounds of First Parish for the rehearsal Friday and the wedding Saturday. Much was familiar, and some things were very new. The Remembrance Corner exists! This is a project that had been underway for years, and had gotten more focused in the months before I left, thanks to some very dedicated church members. It’s quite an addition. The gardens around the church are also looking really good.
I still knew my way around, and I was also aware that I was a visitor. I no longer had keys to the building, the copy room, the office that I once called mine.
The wedding itself was lovely. It was good to see some of the familiar and friendly faces I knew from my years at the church, and to see the bride and groom and their families so happy together. The weather was agreeable, too -- after a deluge Friday evening, Saturday was dry and warm, but not unbearable, as it often is this time of year.
In the evening, I went with a friend to see the one-man show of Stan Strickland, one of Boston’s resident jazz musicians. It’s called “Coming Up for Air”, and through it he tells his life story through music and song. Very engaging to see. It was playing at a new theater in Cambridge on Mass. Ave., but that was the closing night. His next stop will be Edinburgh.
Sunday morning was leisurely. I took my time getting out of bed, and gathered my things to be checked out by noon. There I was, on the fifth floor of the parking garage about to pull out of the hotel, and I noticed just how brilliant the partially cloudy sky was. I took some time to be with it, before getting into the car and driving away. Coming back over to Roslindale, I had to take the long way around, as the (Caribbean Festival?) was happening in Roxbury, and there were many police blockades.
I paid some attention to how I moved around the snarled traffic. I like that, at least where driving is concerned (and I’m not running late), I’m at ease with changes in route or plan. I had to go way around Roxbury – all around Franklin Park, through Dorchester, Mattapan and Hyde Park – to get to Roslindale. But I felt my way, watching the signs, and learning to trust the moments of uncertainty. And I got where I was going just fine.
And now, the break is truly over, exactly six months from my last sermon at First Parish of Arlington. I have a check-up with my doctor of the past seven years tomorrow, and the movers arrive Tuesday afternoon. I will make my way down to New Jersey at that point, too, and I start work Friday, August 15.
Some have asked if I will be blogging after my leave is over. I’m going to take a break from blogging, though I suspect I will resume at some point. For those who have been reading this one and would like to be alerted when a new one starts, please send me an email at smithcarel@aol.com and let me know.
And to those who have read and commented on Six-Month Break, thank you. I’m glad to know that you’ve been interested in the journey enough to follow along. The format really gave me a chance to make a record of my travels and share as the path unfolded.
Many of you know that one of my goals when I set out on the break was to finish the novel that has been in the works for about the past two decades. That didn’t happen. I can see that I didn’t create a context for myself to support that work. What the novel needs is consistency: of my attention, and of location. With the blog and with my morning pages, I’ve established the consistency of a regular writing pattern. In New Jersey, with a place to call home for the next several months, I will have a consistent location. I look forward to seeing what emerges from that.
And, I’m glad for the book that has emerged in raw form – the memoir of these several past months. I remember being frustrated with myself when I was in Provincetown those three weeks late in the winter because the novel wasn’t what was coming out. When I stopped berating myself for not doing what I thought I was going to be doing and just got with the flow of what was happening, I was able to relax into the process and appreciate it for what it was.
Now the whole six months seems like a dream, part of the longer dream of my whole life, where nothing stays for very long. I guess long-term relationships are like that. Where do we return to, in hopes of not being alienated? I have been re-reading Laura Kipnis’s searing polemic Against Love in recent days. Is she ever adept at skewering the sacred cow of romantic love in modern Western culture. However, I think she missed the deeper need that romantic love serves. In a world of changing faces and places, I think such attachments fill the need for constancy, and serve as a kind of a guard against loneliness and isolation.
I asked myself as I drove from Cambridge, and the wedding party that knew me, to my friend's house in Roslindale, "If I were to get in trouble right here – an accident, an aneurism, a blown-out tire – who would know who I am?" There’s a quality of life that seems to be about shuttling from safety zone to safety zone, to hold back the unpleasant and unpredictable aspects of existence. I haven’t had a consistent place to stay over the past several months, but I have had regular pay-checks, and access to health care, and a reliable, paid-for vehicle that I own to drive. Out of that relative stability emerged a six-month adventure now closing as quickly as it began.
I am left with sense of providence. I’m not always reliable to follow my intuition, or to act consistently with what I say are my best intentions. I can’t always rely on people to tell the truth, or to behave in ways that promote honor, integrity, love and peace. But I do find that the universe is providential. The old folks used to say, “The Lord will make a way somehow.” Even older folks said, “The Way doesn’t do anything, but it leaves nothing undone.” What is necessary is somehow always near, always available – What is necessary is often not what I think it is. Oh, for eyes to see, to truly see.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Week 25 of 26: Trespasses, or Back to Boston
I left Easton Mountain shortly after my light breakfast in the Lodge Monday morning (July 28), and after saying goodbye to the staff and fellow volunteers who were close by. It was a clear day, a good day for driving through the gorgeous and extremely green New York countryside. I did have the sense of turning away from the part of my leave that was oriented towards being on-leave. Time to resume the thinking and mind-set of a parish minister again … not that it is ever far from me. As I said to someone recently, that identity is part of my core now, as much as being United Methodist or a native Mississippian. Like the trunk of a tree, there might be lots of other rings that grow around the core, but that core doesn’t change.
“Lead-foot” might be another one of those core identities. Every few years, I get a speeding ticket while I’m just zooming along I-95, or I-40, or in this case, the MassPike. I didn’t even see the state police, or if I did, I was in a state of denial. By the time he pulled me over, he said to me, “Not only did you pass me, but then you get right in front of me, going (insert excessive mph here)!” I couldn’t argue. I was trying to make it on time for an appointment, and stopped paying attention to my surroundings. I didn’t put up a fuss, and he knocked five miles off the violation he clocked me at. Still, a three-digit fine seemed silly to have earned, especially since, even with all that, I still made it to my appointment with time to spare.
Afterwards, I said to myself, No need to delay. Just pay the fine and be done with it as quickly as possible. I couldn’t find my checkbook, so I walked to the nearest post office, got a money order and mailed it right away. Done. Great. I walked back around to my car on a side street off Mass Ave, and there was a ticket under the windshield wiper for my expired inspection sticker. It became invalid at the end of June, while I was still in Florida. I knew that as soon as I crossed over into Massachusetts, it would be in violation, but I thought I wouldn’t get caught the very first time I parked on the street. I was wrong. Forty bucks worth of wrong, to be precise. But I couldn’t get mad. You drive too fast, you get a ticket. You let your sticker expire, you get a ticket. These things are almost natural laws. Still, I was feeling nostalgic for being out in the woods, with no need for locks or state patrol officers or sticker inspectors … can it be that it was all so simple then, just that morning?
I was reentering urban life, and not particularly enjoying it.
Parking on the campus of BU for the Transitional Ministry Training was pretty stressful, too, especially because I forgot to arrange for parking when I registered. I got it worked out Tuesday, but not before missing my lunch and being late for the afternoon session that day.
The training itself was very valuable. About 30 colleagues were there, including Rev. Alma Crawford, who I haven’t seen in years. She was actually my introduction to UUism back in the early 90s in DC, when she was serving a small congregation on Capitol Hill, and we were both seminary students at Howard. In fact, this is the first time we were in a classroom environment together in 16 or 17 years. That seems unreal to me.
What a great context to get focused on the work that lies ahead in the fall, and to revisit some of those ongoing questions about ministry: What are my personal and professional boundaries? What’s appropriate ministerial attire at the church picnic? How do we establish credibility in a new congregation? What does it take to be a career interim minister? How do we guide and support congregations that have been traumatized? An added bonus is that these and other questions gave me lots to think about for future sermons. I looked out the window of the conference room and right onto Commonwealth Ave, to see men moving dresser drawers, young people jugging, people waiting for buses, in the midst of lots of asphalt and concrete. Mountainsides full of trees were not so near and prominent in my field of vision.
By Thursday, I had spend three and a half days straight in seminar mode, which ended up being more draining than I thought. A non-UU colleague put me up overnight in Roxbury, and my housesitting for a friend in Roslindale began Friday afternoon, with a little glitch: I had forgotten the passcode for her alarm system. I thought the clue for how to disarm it was by the control panel, but I couldn’t recognize it as it was disguised among some other numbers. Thirty seconds later, the alarm want crazy. Incredibly loud, long (10 minutes stretching into eternity), painful and violent. A neighbor vouched for me when the police came, and things calmed down.
Still, after that incident, I didn’t step outside the house until Monday afternoon. I needed some down-time, and more than I thought. I did manage to watch the documentary Chisolm '72: Unbought and Unbossed on dvd, about Congresswoman Shirley Chisolm’s presidential bid. It’s amazing to me that so little is said this year in particular about this woman who paved the way for the first black male likely to be elected, as well as the first white female. Chisolm was ahead of her time, and has gone largely under-appreciated for her contribution to this new era of US politics.
One week left. I’ve got some running around to do, but the date is set for the move with the moving company next Tuesday, and the wedding is on track for this weekend. Now’s the time to reflect on the meaning of all these six-months, and the break itself.
“Lead-foot” might be another one of those core identities. Every few years, I get a speeding ticket while I’m just zooming along I-95, or I-40, or in this case, the MassPike. I didn’t even see the state police, or if I did, I was in a state of denial. By the time he pulled me over, he said to me, “Not only did you pass me, but then you get right in front of me, going (insert excessive mph here)!” I couldn’t argue. I was trying to make it on time for an appointment, and stopped paying attention to my surroundings. I didn’t put up a fuss, and he knocked five miles off the violation he clocked me at. Still, a three-digit fine seemed silly to have earned, especially since, even with all that, I still made it to my appointment with time to spare.
Afterwards, I said to myself, No need to delay. Just pay the fine and be done with it as quickly as possible. I couldn’t find my checkbook, so I walked to the nearest post office, got a money order and mailed it right away. Done. Great. I walked back around to my car on a side street off Mass Ave, and there was a ticket under the windshield wiper for my expired inspection sticker. It became invalid at the end of June, while I was still in Florida. I knew that as soon as I crossed over into Massachusetts, it would be in violation, but I thought I wouldn’t get caught the very first time I parked on the street. I was wrong. Forty bucks worth of wrong, to be precise. But I couldn’t get mad. You drive too fast, you get a ticket. You let your sticker expire, you get a ticket. These things are almost natural laws. Still, I was feeling nostalgic for being out in the woods, with no need for locks or state patrol officers or sticker inspectors … can it be that it was all so simple then, just that morning?
I was reentering urban life, and not particularly enjoying it.
Parking on the campus of BU for the Transitional Ministry Training was pretty stressful, too, especially because I forgot to arrange for parking when I registered. I got it worked out Tuesday, but not before missing my lunch and being late for the afternoon session that day.
The training itself was very valuable. About 30 colleagues were there, including Rev. Alma Crawford, who I haven’t seen in years. She was actually my introduction to UUism back in the early 90s in DC, when she was serving a small congregation on Capitol Hill, and we were both seminary students at Howard. In fact, this is the first time we were in a classroom environment together in 16 or 17 years. That seems unreal to me.
What a great context to get focused on the work that lies ahead in the fall, and to revisit some of those ongoing questions about ministry: What are my personal and professional boundaries? What’s appropriate ministerial attire at the church picnic? How do we establish credibility in a new congregation? What does it take to be a career interim minister? How do we guide and support congregations that have been traumatized? An added bonus is that these and other questions gave me lots to think about for future sermons. I looked out the window of the conference room and right onto Commonwealth Ave, to see men moving dresser drawers, young people jugging, people waiting for buses, in the midst of lots of asphalt and concrete. Mountainsides full of trees were not so near and prominent in my field of vision.
By Thursday, I had spend three and a half days straight in seminar mode, which ended up being more draining than I thought. A non-UU colleague put me up overnight in Roxbury, and my housesitting for a friend in Roslindale began Friday afternoon, with a little glitch: I had forgotten the passcode for her alarm system. I thought the clue for how to disarm it was by the control panel, but I couldn’t recognize it as it was disguised among some other numbers. Thirty seconds later, the alarm want crazy. Incredibly loud, long (10 minutes stretching into eternity), painful and violent. A neighbor vouched for me when the police came, and things calmed down.
Still, after that incident, I didn’t step outside the house until Monday afternoon. I needed some down-time, and more than I thought. I did manage to watch the documentary Chisolm '72: Unbought and Unbossed on dvd, about Congresswoman Shirley Chisolm’s presidential bid. It’s amazing to me that so little is said this year in particular about this woman who paved the way for the first black male likely to be elected, as well as the first white female. Chisolm was ahead of her time, and has gone largely under-appreciated for her contribution to this new era of US politics.
One week left. I’ve got some running around to do, but the date is set for the move with the moving company next Tuesday, and the wedding is on track for this weekend. Now’s the time to reflect on the meaning of all these six-months, and the break itself.
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